


Scrambled Egg

by goat_fish



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: All Of The Angst In The World, Angst, CW: Internalized Homophobia, Character Study, F/M, I Dont Care If Robert Isnt An Interesting Character In Canon Im Going To Make Him Interesting, Ignore that I dont know how businesses work, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Not Sure If This Concept Is Actually Possible In Canon But Whatever, Post-Canon, Projection Shenanigans, Repressed Gay Robert Fischer, Robert Has Daddy Issues, Robert Is Crushing On Arthur, Self-Discovery, Self-Reflection, Unsure Of Reality, cw: homophobia, cw: suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:53:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25531651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goat_fish/pseuds/goat_fish
Summary: It turns out that having 9 people three layers deep into your subconscious has unintended consequences for Robert Fischer.With his father's empire falling to pieces and strange projections haunting his dreams (and even his waking hours), he takes it upon himself to find out the truth.
Relationships: Arthur (Inception)/Robert Fischer, Arthur/Eames (Inception), Robert Fischer/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys. So, this is my first fic. I've written before, but just never shared it publicly, so this is new territory for me! I'm very open to constructive criticism, so leave your thoughts in the comments. I was previously working on a screenplay, so I'm still kind of making the transition to a more literary style of writing.
> 
> I've had this idea in my head for about six months, and I *really* wanted to write a character study on Robert, as he doesn't get a lot of love or characterization here on AO3.
> 
> This story isn't super long or complicated, so I don't expect it to have more than 4 or 5 chapters.
> 
> Lines in italics are thoughts/voices in Robert's head!

_ He’s out. _

At first it’s innocuous - completely indistinct from the rest of his tired thoughts - the same resigned drawl of Robert Fischer.

_ He’s going to help us break into his own subconscious. _

_ Security’s gonna run you down hard. _

Now that was different: British and kind of hoarse.

_ And I will lead them on a merry chase. _

This one was his favorite: low and always somewhat pointed in tone. It invaded his thoughts so often that he hardly noticed it anymore.

_ Just be back before the kick. _

__

_ Go to sleep, Mr. Eames. _

Eames. Eames… His eyes snap open.

He pulls the pillow out from behind his head and smashes it onto his face.

“Just shut up,” he weakly mumbled into it.

He threw the pillow to the other side of the bed and stared at the ceiling with narrow, drooping eyes - defiant in his own exhaustion.

He kicked out of his sheets and placed his bare feet on the hardwood floor. It was cool to the touch. His toes flexed reflexively as he dragged his hand down his face.

* * *

He made eye contact with himself in the mirror. Cold sink water dripped down his face and disheveled brown hair. It was a far cry from the gelled and tailored businessman in the papers. He’d been in them a lot more than usual lately.

* * *

He stepped out onto his bedroom balcony. The night wind flowing between skyscrapers was a bit too harsh for comfort. He should have put on a night robe or at least some socks, but the wind kept him awake.

He froze.

A dark haired figure stood in the corner of his peripheral vision. He wasn’t his usual gelled and tailored self either. He wore a t-shirt and boxers. His hair blew in the wind as he leaned against the railing.

Robert sighed and focused his gaze over the edge. The more he indulged in his strange visions the worse they got.

' _Can’t sleep?'_ the figure asks.

It’s the same low and pointed voice. It made Robert want to look. He knew the figure’s eyes were on him. The curiosity of what he would see if he met them almost overtook him, but he pretended to be more curious in the sidewalk cracks that seemed miles below him.

There was one thing that did genuinely intrigue him, though: would all of this stop if he jumped?

* * *

_ Great. So, now we’re trapped in Fischer’s mind battling his own private army, and if we get killed, we’ll be lost in limbo ‘til our brains turn to scrambled egg. _

“Robert.”

“Hm?” He turned from the window to a woman sitting on the other side of the table.

“I woke up early for this. I’d rather you give me your attention.”

Robert tried to manage a smile, but the corners of his mouth and his dead eyes made more of a grimace.

_S o, we’ll be stuck in limbo until our brains turn-_

“I apologize,” he breathed as he grabbed the pitcher of orange juice and refilled his glass. “How is your breakfast?’

“Robert-”

_ So, we’ll be stuck in limbo- _

“-we need to discuss your-”

_ -scrambled egg. _

Robert nodded absently. “So my investments in the-”

She cut him off, “They’re going terribly,”

_ Great. _

“I’d recommend meeting with the CEO of Lukoil in Russia. He’s willing to pay twice as much as the division is worth.”

It took a second for Robert to process what he already knew. “I’ve already sold off enough. I’m going to tough it out. I-”

_ -until our brains turn to- _

Robert hit his hand against the white table cloth. His untouched silverware clanged against each other. He’d already eaten at five a.m.

The woman stared.

Robert took a small sip of his orange juice. “I’m fine.”

It’s deathly silent until the woman decided to set things straight, “I’m going to give you a minute to think things over, but I’m telling you that this is your best option.”

“How’s your eggs?” Robert asked.

“Cold.”

_ Great. _

* * *

Robert rubbed his eyes as he stepped into the elevator with his assistant.

His assistant pressed the first floor’s button. Robert watched his own tapping foot as he waited for the doors to close.

The metal doors started to slide when a hand pulled it back.

It took a moment for Robert to look up, but when he did he smiled. “Allison.”

“Hi,” she smiles back.

Allison stepped into the elevator, the ceiling lights flatly throwing light on her ginger hair. She turned to his assistant, “I’m sorry, do you mind if we take this one alone?”

“No problem,” he replied.

“You don’t have to do that,” Robert protested.

“Robert, please.”

“Fine.”

She ran her hand through his hair. “How’d it go?”

He took her hand away and shrugged. “Fine.”

“No, it didn’t.”

“I know,” he relented. “I’m meeting with the CEO of an energy distributor in Russia this week. You can come with.” He leaned against the elevator wall and closed his eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing. I just can’t sleep.”

“You’ve said that for two weeks.”

“It’s true.”

“Would you sleep better with me?” she laughed, only half-joking.

Only half-heartedly, Robert laughed back.

The elevator halted with an uneasy lurch and the doors slid back open.

Robert leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. All the while, his eyes were on the wood panel elevator wall.

* * *

The portrait of Maurice Fischer sitting on the wall behind Robert had a generally neutral expression, but the slightest furrow of the eyebrow set off an instinctual wave of panic and indignation in Robert. He preferred not to look at it for too long, but as he sat in the leather chair in between the portrait and his desk, he couldn’t help but reflect on how the boiling resentment in his stomach had toned down to a simmer over the past couple of weeks.

Robert couldn’t quite put his finger on why. It was either the strange feeling of closure that came with breaking up his father’s empire, the image of a paper windmill that his father made him in the unbearably sweltering heat that kept surfacing in his mind just as inexplicably as the rest of his recent thoughts, or the fact that his father was now trapped under six feet of impenetrable dirt.

Robert leaned back, content to not read the multitude of documents in front of him.

_ That boy’s relationship with his father is even worse than we imagined. _

Robert shook his head rabidly as if attempting to cast off the thought like a dog would water.

The solid wood door creeks. Peter Browning walked into the office. There was no mutual greeting. Peter just sat down on the other side of the desk and started sorting through papers. Peter held up a particular stack. “Have you gone over this one with-”

“No,”

_ This helps us how? _

Robert looked Peter in the eye. "Look. I know it's all going terribly. You don't have to tell me for the thousandth time. Just, tell me exactly what papers I need to sign." Robert looked away.

_ This boy's relationship with his father is even worse than- _

Robert shook his head again.

"What is going on with you?" Peter's voice hits a familiar frustrated pitch. 

The corners of Robert's mouth tensed, and he breathed more quickly and shallowly through his nose. "I told you to tell me what I need to do."

_ This helps us how? _

"You want me to tell me what you need to do?" Somehow Peter had turned Robert's demand into an act of submission.

Robert put his hand to his chin, still refusing to look at him. "No. I don't want you to tell me what I need to do. In fact, I think you should leave."

"You need to snap out of whatever psychotic power-trip you've been on ever since-" Peter's eyes quickly flashed up to the portrait of Maurice and then back again. "Sometimes I wish you were more like your father."

"Oh, really? How?" That was enough to snap the normally shy and non-confrontational Robert, who was now standing over Peter, with his hands on the desk. "What do you want me to do? You want me to- to- bulldoze a village in Malaysia?" He stuttered, trying to conceal the wavering in his voice.

"Come on, Robert, he didn't-"

"YES HE DID, and if there was any good in that dead heart of his, then he would have wanted me to do this."

"I just meant that your father knew how to run a business ."

"Yeah, and why do I have to do that? He didn't want me to be him."

Peter couldn't help but laugh. "Did you meet your father?"

Robert froze. He knew that Peter is all too correct about what his father wanted. "Yes, I did, and I sleep soundly at night knowing that I am a better man than him a hundred times over. I think you should leave."

_ This boy's relationship with his father is even worse than we imagined. _

The simmering resentment in his stomach had returned back to a raging boil. The breath through his nostrils might as well have been steam.

Peter stands. He gives one last look at the portrait of Maurice and then the scowling face of his son standing in front of it, and leaves the room.

* * *

Robert slowly entered his apartment and locked the door behind him, not bothering to turn on the light. He exhaled as if he had been holding his breath all the way there. He slumped to the floor, bathing in the solitude of the dark night flooding through floor to ceiling windows. He's like this for a minute - eyes closed and head resting against the door.

_ I was disappointed… that you tried. _

The sentence hadn't left his mind ever since the funeral. He heard it as they lowered his casket. He heard it over and over on a loop while he finished signing the final papers to break up the empire, months before the rest of the voices started to surface, but this intrusive thought was different from the rest of them. It was a hoarse, dying whisper - barely recognizable, but undeniably the voice of his father - and it made him want to cry.

_ Disappointed. _

Tears streamed down the dark bags beneath his eyes and down his cheeks. He was so tired. Just tired. He wanted to talk to someone real.

Uncle Peter wasn't safe to confide in anymore, not that he had ever been that safe in the first place. 

His mind drifted to Allison, and he imagined himself telling her everything, crying into her shoulder, looking into her eyes, but in his imagination her eyes were dead. He trusted her, so why didn’t he want to tell her? She was beautiful, but... He didn't want to think about how he would finish that sentence.

_ Go to sleep, Mr. Eames. _

His mind drifted even farther, to the dark haired man with the low voice.

_ Can't sleep? _

That was the question he had asked him on the balcony, and Robert almost answered it right then, sitting with his head against the door.

"NO," he stood up suddenly and rather clumsily. "NO, I am not doing this."

* * *

The shower water was freezing. His teeth chattered as the water pelted his face and shoulders. This was normally more than enough to keep him awake for at least an hour, but Robert found himself almost involuntarily collapsing every time he closed his eyes. So, he stood there squinting against the downpour.

_ Can’t sleep? _

Robert slapped himself in the face, causing water to splash everywhere. 

Now, when he heard that voice, all he could see was the disapproving face of his father. The same instinctual panic set in. His stomach felt like it was wringing itself, but along with the panic came that same indignation. Part of him wanted nothing but to wrap himself in that voice for the rest of his life - to let it wash over him until he disappeared - and the fact that the memory of his father was stopping him made him want to slam his fist against the tile wall.

That was it. He couldn’t fight it anymore. He switched off the faucet and reached for a towel.

* * *

The bed felt softer and warmer than anything he had ever felt. His body had been longing for nothing more than this. Thoughts of what would await him in the sleep ahead of him crossed his mind, but it didn’t matter as he settled deeper into his pillow and blankets. He could feel himself slowly floating off into the realm of his subconscious, and as he did the feeling of a hand running through his hair and the sound of a voice saying, ‘ _Go to sleep, Mr. Fischer_ ,’ became more and more tangible. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, I'm back! I kind of busted this out over the past couple of days so hopefully it isn't too confusing. Thanks for the support on the last chapter!

Robert sat in a plane cabin. It was his usual first class seating - leather chair, alcohol in a glass on the plastic side table, cream walls, and blue outside the rectangular window.

His tie felt unusually tight. He pulled at it, only to notice stark goosebumps on his forearm. A storm was impending upon the coolly controlled cabin.

“Mr. Fischer,”

Robert looked up to a man standing in the aisle leaning on Robert’s chair and holding a glass of golden brown liquor. His eyes were intense and cold, his blonde hair and grey suit were slick, and his voice was almost boyish.

Robert’s breathing fell into the shallow, uneven rhythm of anxiety. He couldn’t seem to break eye contact.

“Yes,” Robert answered, brow furrowing. His eyes flitted away for a brief moment, but the man felt much more intimidating than he should have, and looking away felt like admitting cowardice.

“You don’t recognize me,” the man said. It was as much a question as a statement.

“Mr…” Robert couldn’t remember.

“Charles,”

A flash of hazy memory and recognition crossed Robert’s mind. He didn’t know how but he knew Mr. Charles.

Robert let out a tiny breath of relief.

“Mr. Charles,” Robert almost laughed, “Strange that we ran into each other.”

The man nodded. “Yes,” he smiled, “It is strange… Where are you headed, Mr. Fischer?”

“To Russia.”

Mr. Charles’ eyes narrowed as his brows tilted upwards.

“For a business deal,” Robert adjusted himself in his chair.

Mr. Charles raised his glass amiably. “Here’s to good business.”

Robert raised his own glass in response. They drank, and Mr. Charles walked down the aisle.

Robert relaxed once Mr. Charles was in his seat. Freed from his intense, soul-boring eyes, he looked out the window.

The clouds were thin and sparse, and the sky was still a drained blue. There wasn’t much to look at.

Robert scanned the rest of the cabin.

The occupants weren’t quite the type that would normally have a first class ticket to Russia, but the situation was familiar. Like when you suddenly remember the memory of a dream as an eerily similar situation plays out in front of you.

A small brunette woman. A round faced and bearded man. An older man with a resting scowl. A squarely built man with a smug air.

Robert felt a particular dislike for the smug man. Robert couldn’t tell what the feeling was. Annoyance? No. It was something more intense than that. Jealousy? That was it. The clawing feeling of inadequacy, pride, and laser-focused resentment that comes up out of your stomach and out to your head and out to your eyes and out and out until every part of you is shaking.

All the while the smug man was aloofly staring out the small window. He turned to look at the seat across the aisle from him, and the detachment in his eyes turned to quiet affection.

Robert leaned into the aisle to see who the target of the man’s affection was.

The dark haired man was sleeping in the chair across from the smug man.

Robert’s heart stopped. He panicked and scrambled to look away as quickly as he saw. His elbow slipped, and his glass now lay shattered on the carpet floor.

Glass shouldn’t shatter on carpet from that distance.

The alcohol slowly drained from what was left of the glass and seeped into the carpet. Robert’s mouth was dry.

“Are you all right?” A boyish voice came from behind Robert.

Robert looked back. Mr. Charles was concernedly leaning forward in the chair behind him.

Robert snapped back around. Mr. Charles was sitting there in front of him, and there Mr. Charles was sitting behind him.

The world stopped. The clouds had frozen. The sound of wind and turbulence had disappeared, and when Robert looked back the dark haired man was awake, unblinkingly staring at him. 

The rest of the plane was staring at him. Instead of one pair of soul-boring eyes there were seven.

And the bottom of the plane dropped out.

Robert plummeted. The wind rushed and snapped like a million ropes. He reached out into the endless blue as his eyes rolled into the back of his head, and there was the dark-haired man falling just as hopelessly ten feet away.

His neck snapped with a horrific crack, and for the split second of consciousness he had left, he thought he would die.

***

Robert’s eyes fluttered open to his own dark ceiling. The feeling of falling was yet to leave him, though he was resting in warm sheets. His heart was still pounding and his stomach still wrenched.

Robert stretched out his arm. His hand found a warm form lying beside him, but it felt natural. It belonged there. It was comforting.

“Are you okay?” A low whisper and hot breath gathered around Robert’s ear and cheek.

Robert shook his head. It took a few moments for him to gather his thoughts. 

“Do you - do you know a Mr. Charles?” Robert asked, still winded.

The hot breath ceased. The shape under Robert’s hand wasn’t the same.

A woman’s voice softly laughed, “No.”

Robert jumped. Allison was lying beside him. Robert tried to not reveal his shock as he checked himself to make sure he was fully clothed. He was.

The initial panic faded as he realized what might be happening. He squinted into the dark. Dark figures and were sitting in the corner.

He clumsily slid off the slippery sheets. The hardwood floor lacked it’s typical, cold abrasiveness. He stood, crossed the room, and flipped the light switch.

Robert recoiled at the sudden change in light, but his eyes could make out the two Mr. Charles, who had stopped eating a meal of scrambled eggs and toast to stare at him in that unnerving, unflinching way.

Robert approached them. He looked somewhat foolish in his PJs.

“So,” Robert interrogated. “Which one of you is Mr. Charles... and  _ who _ is Mr. Charles?”

“You see, Mr. Fischer,  _ I _ am Mr. Charles,” the one on the right answered, leaning forward slightly with the earnestness of a salesman selling tupperware. “I was sent to protect you from foreign invaders of your subconscious. Don’t you remember?”

Robert refused to give him the satisfaction of an answer. The other Mr. Charles was silent. Robert turned to him, “And who are you?”

“Cobb,” the one on the left’s answer was simple.

“Cobb what?”

Cobb shrugged casually and took a sip of orange juice.

“Anything else you can tell me?”

Cobb also leaned forward, “Nothing you don’t already know.”

Robert turned to Allison, who was sitting upright in the bed and staring at him with blank eyes.

“Okay,” Robert breathed. The one breath seemed to trigger an entire change in the atmosphere. Both, Mr. Charles and Cobb stood, followed by Allison, as Robert walked backwards toward the glass balcony doors.

“Mr. Fischer,” Mr. Charles instructed, “You need to listen to me. You are currently stuck in a dream-state and I am the only one who can help you.”

Robert took deep, calming breaths. All three of them were closing in on him.

“Robert, who are these people? Please, Robert, talk to me,” Allison was fast approaching and sincere.

“I’m sorry, Allison. I’m sorry.” Robert pushed through the glass doors and onto the balcony. The rope-like wind tugged at his hair and shirt yet again.

Cobb hung back behind the other two. He stalked forward casually with his hands in his pockets.

Robert backed up against the railing. He looked down over the edge to the sidewalk and city street that lay heaven knows how far below him.

“Mr. Fischer, please.” Mr. Charles insisted.

Cobb stalked closer and closer until he had Robert’s cotton shirt in his fist. His piercing eyes were even more frightening inches away from your own.

“Robert,” Allison’s voice rang, “I love you.”

Robert flung himself over the railing. He felt like a stunt artist, hurtling downward with only the slightest trace of doubt in his own decision. He was free, even if it was just for a few moments before he woke.

He saw the small brunette woman where Mr. Charles, Cobb, and Allison used to be. A dirty gag whipped in the wind from around his neck.

And he woke.

***

It was morning. 

Robert was back in his bed, shaking. He had woken in a cold sweat. He gingerly looked around. Everything seemed to be normal.

_ Who’s Mr. Charles? _

_ Bad idea. _

Ah. Now, Robert knew he was awake.

_ -his security is gonna be all over us. We run with Mr. Charles like we did on the Stein job. _

Robert reached for his phone and scrolled through his contacts. He put the phone to his ear as the tone sounded. He swallowed and wiped the sweat and hair from his forehead.

“Hello?” asked the phone.

“Who’s Cobb?”


End file.
